Lessons in Loving thy Murderous Neighbour: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries)

by Charlie Cochrane

  “What’s going on in your noddle?” he asked, after toast had appeared and the housekeeper had beaten a tactful retreat. “It can’t simply be remembered delight at the pleasures of last night, no matter how splendid it was.”

  Orlando concentrated on pouring his tea, then fixed Jonty with what appeared to be an attempt at a serious face. “In our listing of those present at J staircase on Thursday morning, we omitted somebody. An important oversight.”

  “Was it? Did we? I don’t...ah.” Jonty took a sip of tea. “Am I thinking of the same person as you are? Somebody who would have been best fixed to know about the empty, unlocked room?”

  “It sounds like the same. Would she have the strength, to commit the murder, though??”

  “Oh yes, there’s no doubt of that. A muscular breed, nurses.” Jonty buttered a piece of toast, pondering over this new theorem. “She would certainly be able to walk into Seymour’s room without causing him alarm. His guard would be down. Although how would she get at the weapon?”

  “If the deed were done before Owens arrived, perhaps Seymour himself had already taken it off the wall for some reason. Perhaps she fluttered her eyelids at him and asked to see it. If she did it later, chances are she saw it where it had been discarded.”

  “Hmm. Quite possibly. It would add credence to the notion of Owens trying to cover things up. Misplaced chivalry and all that. You think she might be the mysterious cousin?”

  “Possibly. If the cousin aspect isn’t all a mare’s nest.”

  Jonty waggled his half-eaten toast. “You’re not the only person who’s had fresh ideas this morning, on the back—if you’ll pardon the expression—of last night’s congenial activities. I had a dream in which your latest and newly favourite swear word was ‘moccasin’. It was apparently a minced oath, along the lines of ‘Odds bodkins’ but you wouldn’t tell me what vile word was being minced.”

  Orlando rolled his eyes. “On a sensible note, while I feel confident the nurse might have slipped up and down that staircase largely unnoticed—a risk worth taking because she’d have had legitimate reason to be there were she seen, as she could say she was picking up something for Robshaw—what motive could she possibly have had for murder? I can’t believe a family feud that’s rumbled on for years without apparent bloodshed would break out in violence now. And that assumes she is related to Owens, which we don’t know for certain.”

  Jonty picked up his cup, then laid it down again, unused. “I have an idea, but it’s so tenuous in terms of evidence that I’m reluctant to share it. It’s simply based on something mentioned yesterday that caused me discomfort. You must promise not to ridicule me.”

  Orlando seemed about to answer with a quip, before he restrained himself, expression genuinely solemn this time. “I solemnly swear. I would not cause you any further distress.”

  “Thank you.” Jonty sighed. “Nurse Haveland had a daughter, whom she must have loved greatly. What if something awful had happened to that child, before her untimely death from measles? The sort of thing that happened to me at school?”

  Orlando, voice barely above a whisper, asked, “What put that in your mind?”

  “Seymour’s letter to Empson. It seemed such an extraordinarily vile accusation to make. And it struck me that men will often condemn most loudly in others that which they want to hide in themselves. What if Seymour liked to hurt little girls?”

  “You think he may have hurt the nurse’s daughter?”

  “No, because the ages are unlikely to work out. But she might have heard about the accusations, drawn her own conclusions and feel the need to take vengeance against the type. Rather like the St. Bride’s killer.” Jonty picked up his cup once again, in shaking hands. “He rather set a precedent, didn’t he? And whilst our college authorities managed to keep many of the details out of the public eyes, tongues wag. Especially those next door.”

  Observing the pain in Orlando’s eyes was as difficult as discussing the past. Or as watching him trying to be brave and keep his mind on the case. “That need for retribution could apply even had her daughter not been abused in such a way. The death of a child might well affect one’s mind, perhaps leaving those who grieve with a particular need to protect the young. You have a touch of the avenging angel about you at times.”

  “As you said, I’m guilty as charged.” Jonty forced a smile. “And it’s not a pleasant sensation. There have been occasions I’ve feared I’d overstep the line. The nurse certainly has a fiercely protective streak concerning her charges.”

  “Perhaps it’s nothing to do with the daughter. It’s just zeal for the students of the college.” Orlando was clearly trying to move the focus away from painful events. “If she knew of Seymour’s letter to Empson and the others, and it appeared the Owens wasn’t acting quickly enough, she might have decided to take matters in her own hands.”

  Jonty contemplated another slice of toast, but his appetite had gone. “How much of this should we share with our colleagues today? Given that we need to tread a path between sharing our theories and not ending up with egg on our faces.”

  “You’ve got jam on your face, already.” Orlando broke into an unexpected smile. “We don’t need to decide that until we meet for luncheon. Think of all we learned yesterday. What might we know by one o’clock today?”

  “We’ll know the contents of the St. Bride’s chaplain’s sermon, for one thing.” Jonty pushed back his seat. “Have you forgotten we need to be at Morning Prayer?”

  “How could I?”

  Jonty grinned at his lover’s unease. One of the great pleasures of the college chapel, to be counted alongside the beautiful architecture, excellent singing and sensible sermons, was Orlando making himself give the impression he was finding the experience anything but hard work. “If you can sit there good as gold, then as a reward we’ll call in at the college next door afterwards. One of us needs to talk to the nurse, and that should be you. She’ll find your air of helplessness appealing.”

  Orlando snorted. “What will you be up to while I’m trying to find subtle ways of asking ‘did you murder Seymour?’ Lurking about outside in case she goes for me with a hypodermic needle?”

  “Would you like me to? Or would it be better to take Papa’s old walking cane with you? That crafted metal end could keep any harridan at bay.” Jonty mimed a parry at his lover. “I have other fish to fry.”

  “Such as?”

  “Tipping the wink to Dr. Panesar’s pal Jardine, if I can run him down. He’ll best know what to do.”

  “I must be being incredibly obtuse, so enlighten me. What to do about what exactly?”

  “Making sure that we don’t inadvertently undo all our good work.” Jonty traced the outline of a typical college on the tablecloth. “The porters at Assumption are said to have created a good system for ensuring miscreants don’t get into the place. We’ll need them to ensure that any murderer doesn’t get the wind up and make their escape.”

  “A good point. And there’s another to put hard on its heels.” Orlando reached across, laying his hand on Jonty’s. “If we make a hash of things, falsely casting a slur on Assumption’s reputation, it will likely send the feud between the two colleges to unheard of levels. People will forget we were the ones to solve the St. Bride’s murders; instead our place in history will be the idiots who escalated a rivalry into all out war.”

  Jonty rubbed his lover’s knuckles. “If that’s what happens, so be it. We’ll have to bear the consequences. There’s a much worse thing to consider.”

  “Worse?”

  “Indeed. For a person to commit a murder is a huge step to take. Like the first time you deliberately kill someone in battle. Subsequently it becomes easier, that first hurdle having been surmounted.” He folded his hands over Orlando’s. “We don’t want there to be another killing. Not of a student, and not of us. All joking aside, take Papa’s walking stick with you.”

  “And you? Won’t you be at risk?” Orlando’s ashen face refl
ected his anxious words.

  “Possibly. That’s why I’m taking one of Mama’s hat pins. A most innocent looking weapon. She said it effectively cooled many a young man’s ardour.”

  “Really?” Despite his evident anxiety, Orlando grinned. “I thought she simply flattened them with a punch.”

  “That was in her younger days, before she learned subtlety.” Jonty rose, leaning in for a kiss. “Take care. Don’t turn your back on anyone.”

  “I promise. Not even on you, if you carry that pin about.”

  Chapter Seven

  Orlando wouldn’t say that he entirely hated attending chapel. It was part of his duty as a fellow of St. Bride’s, and therefore to be endured without audible complaint, despite Jonty insisting he could read every nuance of dislike on his lover’s face. Although Orlando had found at least one thing to enjoy during a service: the moments when Jonty, a passionate believer, became enraptured with the words or the music or the dancing patterns of sunlight through the stained-glass windows. To see his lover happy—what more could any man desire?

  Still, he was pleased when the last prayer was spoken and the dismissal made, and not only because he would be free to go investigating. He’d been struck by an idea during the sermon, and was desperate to share it.

  “So, what’s the revelation?” Jonty asked as they stepped into the court.

  Orlando, thunder stolen, stamped his foot. “How do you read my mind?”

  “Don’t need to read your mind,” Jonty replied, gleefully. “I read your fizzog. I’ve seen you come up with an idea many a time. You can’t hide the delight.”

  Orlando wasn’t one to complain unnecessarily, but this was unfair in the extreme. “I don’t think I’ll tell you what it was. Just to spite you.”

  “Please yourself.” The intensity of Jonty’s grin remained undiminished. “I may well have had the same idea, hard on its heels. I can’t claim precedence; it was simply of matter of working out what had set you off. Come along, let’s find somewhere we’re unlikely to be overheard.”

  They headed for Orlando’s college room, a place which had seen many an investigation related discussion over the years, and several other activities, for some of which they’d been grateful for the soundproof nature of the St. Bride’s walls.

  “I’m a great fan of St. Thomas,” Jonty remarked, as soon as they were through the door and before he’d parked himself in a chair. “It was very brave of our chaplain to take such an unorthodox approach to the text. I thought some of the dunderheads would faint, until he brought it round to an entirely orthodox conclusion.”

  “Brave indeed.” Orlando usually let his thoughts wander during the homily, but this one—concerning the nature of proof—had been fascinating.

  “If our Lord hadn’t come back that time when Thomas was present in the upper room, would he ever have got to the point of believing? Would the empty tomb and the word of the others have been enough for such a man, or would Thomas have had to rely entirely on the whole package of stories of miracles and the like? As we do. Or don’t,” Jonty added, with a rueful smile.

  “Exactly. What did the chaplain say? Something along the lines of an empty tomb of itself signifying nothing in terms of who might have been there and what they did. Neither could the word of another as to what they saw be guaranteed to be accurate.”

  “At which you thought, ‘an empty room’. No, sorry. Your idea. You expand on it.”

  “Thank you.” How did a man deserve such a considerate partner? “An empty room of itself signifies nothing, and the word of another can’t always be relied on. We have an empty room which we’ve sought to populate on hardly any evidence.”

  Jonty nodded. “I arrived at the same thought a few minutes later. Multiple accounts and hard evidence are needed to be convincing. For example, we have two direct witnesses to the argument between Owens and Seymour, and several circumstantial ones.”

  “Yes, and, although we haven’t sought the information directly, there is nothing to suggest anything untoward happened before that argument took place.” Orlando raised his hand. “Yes, I know that contradicts yesterday’s theorem, but it was only a theorem. Ideas have moved on.”

  Jonty inclined his head. “Very true, Professor. Whereas we’ve sparse evidence of what happened on the staircase after Owens’s visit.”

  “Precisely. And the testimony we do have is unverified.” Orlando, who’d been perching on the edge of his desk, walked over to the window, looking out on a typical Sunday morning St. Bride’s scene. “I think I’ll go straight to the college next door and have a word with Empson. Ask him about cricket. Or more specifically, cricketers.”

  “And I’ll come with you, at least as far as the main court. I need to catch Thompstone.”

  “Why?” Orlando favoured his lover with a smile. “Did you forget to bring some things to mind during the general confession?”

  “Dozens, probably.” Jonty’s grin faded. “No. To put him on guard, as well as to get him to alert the porters. There is more than one way of making a hasty exit from a college, and we don’t want our suspect to take either.”

  ***

  Luncheon at the master’s lodge featured a leg of lamb cooked to perfection, with an accompaniment of vegetables done simply and well, the only sauce being a rich gravy. Orlando noted that neither Jonty nor Dr. Panesar were running late for this engagement. Ariadne forbade any investigative talk over the food, promising that as soon as the cloth was cleared after the fruit crumble (which was rumoured to be following the lamb), then they could get down to business. Jonty had nodded assent on behalf of the company, assuring his hostess that all Assumption related conversation could wait its turn. The matter couldn’t quite clear out of Orlando’s mind, though, especially when the chatter turned to the extraordinary sermon they’d heard, Ariadne mischievously speculating about burdens of proof and whether historians bothered with any at all.

  When at last they settled with coffee in the drawing room, the much-awaited discussion initially proved a bit of a damp squib. Jonty and Orlando detailed what they’d discovered the previous afternoon, admitted that they’d formed a theory and almost as quickly discarded it, then refused to divulge their subsequent idea until everyone else had said their piece, just in case a vital new snippet of evidence had emerged that would cast this new premise into the dustbin. But new evidence there came none, even Dr. Panesar having nothing to offer from his discussions with his lip-reading friend.

  “He made various suggestions,” Panesar averred, “from strange oaths like ‘big as sin’, to obscure Welsh phrases such as ‘this tree’. He has the most ridiculous ideas at times.”

  The company managed to resist commenting on this example of the pot slandering the kettle.

  “Nothing to help us?” Jonty asked.

  Panesar shrugged. “There might be. I’d like to hear your new theory first, though. I believe these waters are muddy enough.”

  “They are.” Orlando took a revitalizing sip of coffee. “We thought at first that Owens himself had deliberately muddied them, from some mistaken sense of either chivalry or family loyalty.” He expounded their ideas concerning the nurse. “If she had been his cousin, and he’d been struck by an outbreak of chivalry, this would make a superficially attractive deduction, although we finally decided she was not likely to be the culprit.”

  “She’s hardly the sort to flit around unnoticed, for a start,” Jonty confirmed, “and she’s devoted to her charges. We’d be foolish to assume she might leave one of them on his own for too long, especially if she suspected she was dealing with a case of measles. It was a solution that appeared to fit the facts, and under pressure of time we grabbed at it. This morning brought further enlightenment, thanks to St. Thomas and his doubts.”

  “Ah, the sermon. I did notice your animation.” Ariadne grinned, to Orlando’s consternation. Had everyone been able to read their faces?

  “It’s as well the inhabitants of the college next door couldn’t
see us.” Jonty raised an eyebrow. “We’d become too fixated on people moving up and down the staircase unnoticed, let alone the empty room and the person we’d speculated was hiding there. But the only evidence for the latter part—the moving door—came from only one student. A student who was said to know everything that was going on, so we’d added extra credence to his testimony. Although, if he was so astute, he might have worked out that he had the staircase to himself for a while on Thursday morning, especially if when he left his room he spotted Empson going off to visit the toilets.”

  “Poulton-Brown?” Dr. Sheridan enquired.

  “Yes.” Orlando took up the tale. “Poulton-Brown. Who has been almost the only person apart from the vice-chancellor to believe that Owens could have been guilty. And if not Owens, one of the recipients of the letters.”

  “Poulton-Brown who admits he is unusually sensitive to sound,” Jonty added, “and was forced to live above a man people have said made a bit of a racket, including singing and whistling out of tune.”

  Dr. Panesar shook his head, although it was often difficult to tell if that meant he agreed or disagreed. “Would excess noise be of itself enough of a motive to take another man’s life?”

  “In the heat of the moment, when anger blazes, men—and women—can be driven to acts they’d never contemplate otherwise.” Ariadne pointed out.

  “Noise is a strange thing.” Jonty’s voice, although calm, clearly spoke of emotions barely kept in check. “I’d rather not give any further explanation but, believe me, one can get into a state of nerves where the slightest untoward sound can trigger the most extreme reactions. I can well believe a lad who was hyper-sensitive to start with might have cracked under the pressure, especially after all that shouting.”

  Orlando, while trusting those present not to question his lover further, quickly moved the story on before the war might be mentioned. “Of all those present that morning Poulton-Brown would have had the easiest route—by which I mean the least likely to be noticed—into and out of Seymour’s room. People will peer down a stairwell as a matter of course. They don’t always look upwards.”